Ulathovil
by Andre Gundasson
Summary: Kamdel, the largest city in the region, is the most racist against tieflings. They get rounded up and imprisoned. Murdered. Despite this, the fate of the world may rest on one: Dalchiel. As extraplanar entities start to encroach on the material plane, Dalchiel has to decide whether or not to save the world that broke him, or watch as it burns in the fires that made him.
1. Chapter One: Introductions

He felt them. Their stares. He felt their hesitation. Their fear. But it was not as large as their greed. He could tell what they wanted. Dalchiel knew: money. A few gold pieces was well worth it for one person, if they called tieflings people. "100 gp per tiefling brought to the Kamdel Guard."

The tiefling on the poster was not Dalchiel, but all tieflings looked the same to racists. He had a swig or two of cider left in his cup. He drank the last of it and set the cup on the counter. "More?" Said the bartender nervously. Dalchiel shook his head. The bartender nodded and went back to cleaning the cup he'd been cleaning for the past 5 minutes.

"So… you enjoy your drink? You done now, devil?" The voice came from behind him.

Not surprising, but definitely not pleasant. He heard footsteps following the jibe. Three, no, four men walked up to him. Three of them rested their hands on their weapons, two shortswords and an axe. The last was cockier, resting a hand on Dalchiel's shoulder.

"Get him another. He'll need it for the ride."

"I don't think I'll make it. My dearest apologies," he said, without turning his head. He stopped the bartender from pouring him another glass.

"Oh ho, don't think you'll make it, ye say? Don't worry, we got a seat on the cart just for ye. Come along now." He grabbed Dalchiel's arm only to get shoved away.

"Leave him alone. The man just wants peace."

This was new. Dalchiel was not used to a 3rd party, aside from bystanders. He looked at the owner of the voice. An elf woman, perhaps an inch or two shorter than himself, was seated at the stool next to him. A long swath of red hair cascaded down her shoulders to her mid back, covering the bow resting there. She wore an annoyed expression and held a drink in her right hand. The left she used to shove the Devil Trapper, as they were called.

"Well, well. If it isn't the lady in the paper." He held up a different poster.

"150 gp for the capture of this woman. Deliver to the Kamdel Guard ALIVE."

She did look familiar.

It showed her image above the words. She cursed and turned back to the bar.

"Oh no, you aren't getting off that easily. We've already got 100 gp right here, we aren't about to pass up an extra 150."

He grabbed her shoulder. Big mistake. She lashed out with a dagger and removed his hand from his arm. He cried and collapsed to the floor, weeping.

The three others behind him now unsheathed their weapons, causing the bartender to grow pale and crouch behind the counter. Dalchiel knew that he couldn't sit any longer, but he really didn't want to get up. He made a decision, however, when the man with the axe swung at him.

He darted to the side, causing the axe to embed itself in the ale-stained counter. One of the sword wielders lunged at him, aiming at his chest. The blade didn't meet him, as he parried the strike with his rapier. He followed up with thrust of his other hand, creating a magical flame, scorching his opponent.

The elf was engaged in her own fight, but she had already won. The last man capable of fighting swung toward her neck, but was quickly dispatched when she went low and gave him a gash across his inner thigh. He quickly crumpled and cried.

The axe man decided to abandon his weapon for a dagger. Being the last man standing, he was at a disadvantage. The elf woman drove her dagger into his back while Dalchiel slashed his rapier across his neck, ending the fight.

Dalchiel heard the bartender whimper behind the counter. He sighed and set 20 gp on the counter. "Sorry for the mess." That was all he said as he walked out of the tavern.

It was night time, about 11 or so, and raining.

He noticed the iron wagon the Trappers would have put him in. Inside, there was a middle aged tiefling woman. She shivered as her clothes were soaked from the water leaking through the roof. Dalchiel looked around, hoping not to see any guardsmen or Trappers nearby.

Luckily, there weren't.

He summoned a flame and threw it at the lock on the cage. The lock blew apart, the sound startling the woman awake. She jumped and moved herself as close to the wall as she could, not registering for a moment what was happening.

"You're free now. Be careful." Dalchiel said, and then walked off. He heard her exit the wagon a few seconds later.

He turned to go down an alleyway, but stopped as soon as he saw a figure waiting for him. Although humans couldn't see in the dark, tieflings were able to do so. He quickly recognized the figure as the elf woman from inside the tavern.

"A thanks would have been nice." She called from down the alley.

"I didn't ask for your help." He replied.

"Yet I helped you out anyway."

"Will you demand payment for your services next?" He sarcastically asked.

"Not a bad idea, but no."

He read her, noting that her hand was not on her bow nor her blade. He walked toward her, not much caring for her delaying him. As he tried to pass her, she thrust out her arm, blocking his way.

"Okay, then what is it you wanted?" He asked after a moment of silence.

"That's better." She left her arm fall. "You're a magic wielder. For hire?"

He shook his head. "No. I am not looking for work."

"Not even for a good cause?"

He paused and looked at her again. He took note of the situation. He did not know this person. She was not of his blood nor was she anyone he knew. She did, however, seem to treat him like a person, unlike the majority of the population, which treated him with less dignity than sod.

"What cause?" He finally asked.

She turned to face him and straightened a bit. "You know of the Warich Bank and Loan, yes?"

He then recalled who this woman was. "I am not robbing the bank." And started to walk away.

"Think of how many people that place, those rats, have put into debt. Think of those who died because they could no longer buy bread. They call in their debts, knowing full well that those souls will lose everything they own. You know it's right to take from them."

He continued walking. Dalchiel was not about to put himself on the line when he didn't need to. He left her standing in the alley and made his way home.

He closed the door, letting an invisible weight fall off his shoulders. Immediately, Dalchiel felt better. He could smell the incense, slightly heavy in the air. The arches went high above his head. They normally made people feel insignificant, but Dalchiel always felt comforted underneath them.

The temple of Helm. The only one for a few miles.

He walked through the halls until he reached the door leading to his room. He didn't go in, not just yet. He, instead, walked to the right and went into a doorless room. The room was carpeted with vibrant reds and yellows, no cold colors. Sitting cross-legged in the center was a rather small man, aged about 70. He had very little hair left on his head and looked frail. Despite this, Dalchiel knew that this man, Menou, had never contracted any disease. No common cold nor fatal illness.

"How was your walk?" Menou piped up after several moments.

Dalchiel shrugged. "Rather uneventful, for once."

"Schrine. You're lying."

Schrine was a word from another long lost human language that, Dalchiel deduced years ago, meant a bluff call.

"How would you know what happens when I walk?" Dalchiel asked, already knowing the answer.

"I am a seer. It's my job."

"Then what happened?"

"Why would you need to know? You walked that path already."

Dalchiel chuckled a little, and turned to leave.

"You wouldn't happen to be thinking about joining her, would you?" Menou asked.

Dalchiel stopped and pondered for a moment. This was a new question. One he had not expected. If anything, Dalchiel had half expected Menou to say his choice was right, if his choice were even brought up at all.

"No." He blatantly stated, and left for his room.

Very modestly furnished, Dalchiel's room was not much bigger than a closet. However, it was all he wanted. Along one wall was his bed, just big enough for him. He had a small dresser tucked along another wall, with an unlit candle, a small book of holy text, and a vial of holy water. The last wall left barely enough room for a desk, but that's what was there. On top was an ink well with a quill and a few blank sheets of parchment.

Very modestly furnished.

Dalchiel slumped onto the bed, exhausted from the day. While his walk wasn't uneventful, his day was. He had done nothing earlier except leave for food, complete a few odd jobs (which hardly earned him one gold piece), and prayed. That was when he left for the tavern. Generally, Dalchiel drank no intoxicating beverages aside from wine, but even then very little. However, he felt that today was a day for hard cider. He decided that he would not return to that tavern for a while if he could help it.

He reached under his pillow, practically a sack filled with straw, and pulled out a paper cache holding the one talisman he dared to keep: a necklace. It was comprised of silver links, not even half a centimeter across each, and adorned with what many would mistake for a ruby. In fact, it was actually a spinel. He held it up, gazing at the gemstone as it slowly turned right, then left. He wrapped it back in the paper which concealed it and tucked it away again.

He didn't remember how he got it. Just that he had it. It had been with him before he was offered the sanctuary of the temple. It had been with him during his time in the streets. It had been with him when he lived in the sewer system. It had never not been with him, as far as he remembered.

He sat up, went to the dresser, and grabbed the book, although he barely needed to walk to do so. He opened it to where he had left off. He had been reading on divine protection, as was his god's specialty. He had recently passed through the determination for protection and was now reading about the process itself. It was generally a hard read for common folk, but clerics were taught to understand the multitude of religious texts, phrases, and miracles.

He read for a while, ignorant to the world. Just letting himself enter the pages of the book. After a while, he set it back on the dresser, laid down, and allowed himself to drift off.

He felt heat. Burning. He smelled it. The scent of wood, straw, flesh. He opened his eyes, greeted by the ruins of some street he could no longer recognize. He saw the cobbles littered with debri and viscera alike. It was night, but bright from the flames. Dalchiel looked about for some sign of life, but found only the remains of those who once were.

He heard it… breathing. He turned to face the sound, rushing over to the wreckage. As he went to move the scorched boards aside from the source, he felt something. Something wrong… something that shouldn't exist here. He noticed how deep the breaths were. How heavy the lungs sounded. He stepped back a few paces.

I can feel you.

It reverberated in his skull. It felt like hot iron pressed against his mind.

But you aren't here, are you?

He couldn't stand. His legs suddenly didn't work and he fell to the stones.

I can feel you, Devil-spawn.

The rubble shifted, shuddered, then started to fall away as the creature beneath it rose. At its height, it stood at about 8 feet. Its arms and legs were rippled with muscles and its hands had only meaty 3 fingers. The eyes were an ugly yellow, glowing slightly beneath a ridge of spikes running along its face. The spikes continued down its back, contributing to the intimidating presence it exuded alongside a truly horrid stench. It almost resembled a large, malformed toad.

Perhaps you could be useful. It commented as it brushed a severed human arm from its shoulder. You know my kind. You could be useful to my master.

Dalchiel felt like he was going to vomit. He couldn't think straight, the odor and the aura of the beast overpowering him. He saw blackness covering the edges of his sight, approaching the center.

We shall meet again, Ulathovil. The fiend said as Dalchiel fell away from the scene.

_**Hey guys. This isn't actually my campaign, but just an original idea for a story following the general sword-and-sorcery nature of D&D. Trying to incorporate a little bit of mystery into it. **_**_Those of you who play D&D, little question for you: Favorite playable race and why? Anyways, thanks for reading. Questions and comments are always appreciated. Thanks and until next time,_**

**_Bye!_**

**_Andre (3/4/20)_**


	2. Chapter Two: Errands

It felt worse than a hangover. Not by a whole lot, but definitely worse. Dalchiel rubbed his head, waiting for the waves of pain to at least dull. Not only did his head hurt, but his whole body felt bad. His arms felt like they'd been beaten with stones, then dumped in freezing water. His legs hurt around the same, except instead of freezing water, it was mud. His heart kept pounding away in his chest, but it felt like his ribs were bruised.

He tried to get up, but his back decided to unleash a flurry of pain up his spine, so he was forced to lie down for a few minutes.

At some point, he had fallen off his bed. He grabbed the side of it and hoisted himself up. He shook as he attempted to walk to the dresser. He grabbed the holy water and, hands shaking, poured a little into his left hand, barely more than a few drops. He rubbed it on his forehead, sighing as the intense migraine faded. He poured a little more and spread it along his arms. The biting pain slowly receded from his limbs.

After he rested for a moment, relishing the lack of hurt, he looked around. His room was no different, except that he had knocked a few things down when he went to the dresser. He quickly replaced them and opened his book and flipped to the back. There he found what he was looking for. He kept the book open, leaving the prayer revealed, and rummaged in the bottom of his dresser. He pulled out a single candle. He set it on the floor in front of the book and summoned a small flame, lighting it.

Dalchiel kneeled and calmed his mind. He lifted his left hand in a fist, knuckles pointed up, and recited the prayer.

"Divinity Helm, whose armored hand deflects evil where it may stand.

Divinity Helm, who protects us from chaos and malevolent forces.

Divinity Helm, I pray that thou might shield me from the infectious corruption that spreads through the lower realms.

I pray that thou might look fondly upon me and ward me from entities of hellish or abyssal origin.

In your name and your service I remain.

Helm manczil."

Dalchiel rose and snuffed the candle. He didn't know if his deity heard, but he at least knew he tried. He closed the book and set it in its original place.

He looked around again, but still saw nothing. He grabbed the only coat he owned from his dresser and shrugged it on. He snatched a scroll from inside the dresser drawer then went outside. Judging by the light, it was the afternoon. He cursed quietly, then walked down the steps of the temple to the street.

The weather was still dreary, as it generally was in Kamdel, but there seemed to be no rain as he strode to his first destination: the local scroll master.

The scroll master of the outer district of Kamdel was not a very popular man, but definitely a wise one. A human nearing his 60s, he had a wealth of hair cascading down his back, but it had grayed much earlier in his life. He was rumored to have been an officer of the Royal Guard at one point. Dalchiel had learned that this was not true: the scroll master, whose name was Barand, had really been a third rank army soldier, serving during the Dwarven Rebellion and the Coastal Skirmishes of 807 SA. He didn't talk much about the Dwarven Rebellion, but he always had a story to tell of his battles upon the sand.

Dalchiel walked to a small two-story building tucked between a small potter shop and a courier's guild. He entered and was greeted with the smell of goodleaf fresh in the air. Barand had a habit of smoking while he worked, claiming it gave the scroll repository an "undisturbed essence" about it.

He spotted the old man reading a book at his counter to Dalchiel's right. Despite being called a scroll master, Barand had been smart and made the leap from scrolls to books a year or two before it was in high demand, allowing him to spend a lot less than it would have cost to make the switch. He still kept scrolls, but mostly for records and inventory.

Upon seeing him, Barand took a puff and smiled. "I see you have returned, studious one! I assume you have come to exchange your current holding for something new?" He said in his low, slightly raspy tone.

Dalchiel laid the book down on the counter. "Yes," he replied, "but I am looking for something specific."

Barand laughed. "You are always specific."

"Yes, true, but this time I need reports on a certain type of creature."

"Ah, moving into biology? I'd say you should get something more about social encounters or perhaps compatibility."

Dalchiel shook his head, ignoring the friendly jibe. "No, just the reports, thank you."

Barand chuckled and had another puff. "Reports of what creature? I have a rather decent collection of articles concerning perytons, believe it or not. Actually quite fascinating, those things."

Dalchiel shook his head once more. "I am looking for any reports you might have on demons."

Barand thought for a moment, then sighed. "I cannot say that I have much. Most texts involving demons are held by the high temples of inner Kamdel, as far as I know. I know of one that I might have." He shuffled to the room behind him and searched through shelves lining the walls. After a minute, he pulled a book off, examined it, then nodded, walking back to Dalchiel. "An older work, but still relevant, I'd say." Dalchiel read the title, _A Catalog of Abyssal Denizens: Concerning Demonic Physiology_. Dalchiel decided that this was his best place to start searching for answers and nodded.

Barand pulled a scroll from beneath the counter. "Alright. You know the drill. Sign for the return of the last one and the lend of this one." Dalchiel quickly scratched in his name and walked to the door. "Thank you again, Barand."

The scroll master smiled. "Anytime. Be sure to tell me of anything interesting you find. And maybe try to meet someone new." Dalchiel shook his head and left.

As he walked into the street, he tucked the book into one of the larger pockets in his coat and strode off to his next errand. The rain had started, but it was barely a trickle. He expected it to get worse in the coming hours, as it generally did.

He arrived at a small marketplace about 5 minutes later. It wasn't very crowded, but had enough attention that there were very few open spots for a stall. Dalchiel could smell a very pungent spice from among the smell of fish and mostly fresh food. It wasn't new. Every time he came down to this specific market, it was adorned with a different spice scent, so while the scent itself was new, the sensation was the same.

He walked to a stall on the west side of the market. It was pedalling inks, as it always did. People had to get up early to get a good spot at the market. This stall was always here, everyday that the market was open. It never moved a spot to the left or right. It was always front and center of the west side, ready to greet customers, both local and foreign.

The stall itself was manned, or more aptly womaned, by a mid-twenties blonde half-elf, although mid-twenties was difficult to say. Half-elves have an age between that of an elf and a human, so Dalchiel assumed she was nearing 90 or so years old, though she looked to only be 26-ish human years.

Her name was Filaurel. She seemed to have two kinds of moods: hearty or irascible. When she was in a good mood, she wore a smile and generally inquired about how people were and conversed more normally with regular customers, such as Dalchiel. When she was in a bad mood, she generally ended up shouting or threatening to throttle someone, or both. Today, she seemed to be in a good mood.

Dalchiel called out, approaching, "I'm hoping you have a better selection than last week. Pitiful that there were no dark blues."

She smirked, "If you aren't pleased, I'm sure you can find another vendor as good as me somewhere in the outer realms."

They both chuckled, Dalchiel actually cracking a smile. "So what do you have today, then?"

"Depends: what coin are you willing to spare?"

Dalchiel grinned. "Well, I happen to be in the market, so you will probably make off like a bandit today."

Filaurel pulled 3 sealed inkwells from beneath the counter. "I sure hope I do. I have a few new ones today. This one over here," she pointed to the one she placed on the far right, "is a dark red. Crimson, about. I gather it is useful in record keeping, used in dealing with different kinds of expenses and whatnot. I assume you church types use red for something." Dalchiel chuckled and noticed as she pulled some strands of hair behind her ear.

"Next, we have that dark blue you wanted last time. Very common in official documents and magical scrolls. Very widely used and well seen," she explained as she pointed to the middle choice. "Lastly," she moved her hand to the left, "we have yellow."

Dalchiel picked up the yellow, as it was the least expected of the bunch. "Just yellow? You aren't going to explain its uses and origin?"

"It's yellow. It isn't common and it's from the Aragh regions. I'm not an encyclopedia," she said shrugging.

Dalchiel pulled 2 gold out of his purse. "So, that blue one, then… about how much would that go for?"

"Give me the damn coin, you jester. You know full well how I price my wares by now." She said smiling. He grinned and dropped the change into her palm.

After taking the blue ink and placing it in his coat, Dalchiel decided to venture, "So, the market is closed next Wednesday… do you have any plans?"

"If you are planning on buying me a drink, then yes, I am free that day, thank you for asking," she said bluntly with a smirk. "Although, are you sure you'd like to partake? I heard you had a bit of an… encounter yesterday."

Dalchiel cursed. He hadn't expected news of last night to travel so fast. He came to the conclusion that it gained more traction since the elf woman dispatched several of the trappers. "Perhaps I will, if you'll be there."

"That I will. The Silver Knot. I'm assuming you know where that is?"

"You'll find out when I arrive," Dalchiel said as he walked away. He heard her laugh as he left the marketplace. It made him feel good.

The rain came down harder than before, starting to pool in the streets. Dirt mixed with the falling water to create patches of mud littered throughout the outer district. Dalchiel was glad to have brought his coat as, along with its abundance of pockets, it had an inner lining creating a slight layer of warmth. It wouldn't be enough for a tall mountain or a tundra area, but it was perfect for the outskirts of Kamdel.

Dalchiel arrived at his third and final errand destination. The part of his day he did not look forward to: registration.

The building itself was probably a tavern at some point, but had been converted to a citizenship office in the years following the Dwarven Rebellion. Certain groups of people were required to have papers declaring whether they were registered as citizens as per their occupation. Dalchiel, serving in the temple of Helm, was registered, and, therefore, should not have been bothered yesterday. His documents had not expired; they were to last for another month before he needed to renew them.

He opened the door to the rickety office and quickly took count of everyone inside as he entered. There was an adult male tiefling waiting in a chair with a younger tiefling boy sitting next to him. The adult had scarlet colored skin and a pair of rams horns curling to encircle his ears with a short ragged cut of dark brown hair. The child, on the other hand, had only two small nubs coming up. Dalchiel knew they wouldn't curl or get much bigger, as his had not either. The child had a darker hue than the adult, with skin the color of wine, and equally unkempt hair, which was jet black. The two shared one thing in common, however: their eyes. Both had black eyes, smooth as a pearl from the sea.

There was a dwarf, male as well, conversing with a human man. From the sound of their conversation, Dalchiel believed that it was not going well and would likely end soon. Two guards, both humans, but one male and the other female, stood off to the side. Dalchiel fell in line a few steps behind the dwarf. Only slightly taller than 4 feet, the dwarf stood a little ways in front of the counter to see the man. He looked to be in his prime years and sported a beautifully braided orange beard reaching his lower torso. He wore a uniform, but one of a guild and not the military. He, like the tieflings Dalchiel saw, carried no weapon.

That apparently did not ease the guards, who had their hands on theirs since Dalchiel walked in.

"I gave ye mah dues! I paid ye last month! Ahm not needin' tah pay ye 'til the thirtieth!" The dwarf said loudly, pointing a stern finger to the man.

The man, perhaps barely in his mid 20s, was smirking. He wore a uniform as well, but not for a guild. He was part of the royal citizens court.

"I don't make the rules around here. Our taxation on your kind has gone up. Two more gold pieces a month. Just pay it now, and we can move on. Then you can go about paying the 5 when the thirtieth does roll around." He said it as if talking about collecting rent. Rent for living. Rent for existing.

"But I already paid ye! I shouldn't have to pay yer new hiked fee 'til the next time! Ye shouldn't go about hangin' new tax notices unless they be proper and fair to _mah kind_!" A bit of spittle flew out of the dwarf's mouth.

"Just give me the two gold pieces so we can get this over with. You stout folk should be well informed of our policies put on you and lack of that knowledge is not a fault of the crown."

"Orc piss! Ahm not payin' ye more fer no damned reason!" He turned and stomped to the door.

"Expect the guards to meet you in the next day or so to collect your fee." The man called to the dwarf, grinning.

"YE CAN SHOVE IT UP YER-" The man flicked his hand and the door slammed shut, cutting the dwarf off, leaving only him, the two guards, the two sitting tieflings, and Dalchiel. "Next," he said with an innocent voice.

Dalchiel approached the desk. "And what can I do for you today?" Asked the man, mischief already in his gaze.

"I'd like the trappers to stop targeting me," Dalchiel stated bluntly.

"Papers, please." The man said. Dalchiel fished his documents out from a lapel pocket in his jacket and set them on the counter. The man picked them up, unfolded them, and started to read.

"Dalshiell..." The man said in a slow voice while he skimmed through the details. "You are employed by the… temple of Helm. The one off near the south west end?"

"Dalchiel, as in key; and yes, that one. I also hold residence there."

"... Indeed..." The man flipped a page. "It looks as if everything is in order. Tell me, what's your age?"

"I was born 786 SA. I am twenty."

"You already stated residence… parents?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know if you have parents?"

"I do not know the identity of my parents. I also have no known siblings."

The man stared at him for a moment. "Alright. It all checks out. I'll get you on the list. That'll be 2 gold."

Dalchiel did a double take, not expecting the charge. "Sorry, I have to pay to not get hunted?"

"You're a citizen, aren't you? All registered citizens have to pay taxes. This is just part of that. Consider it a processing fee. Two gold."

Dalchiel paused for a moment. He looked the man up and down. He knew Dalchiel couldn't do anything. If he refused, the man would surely take advantage of the situation and send trappers his way. If he agreed, 2 gold pieces was a fair chunk of change. Dalchiel knew he didn't have a choice, however. He set down the coins, grabbed his papers, and shoved them in his coat.

"I will get your request processed and confirmed. Don't forget to renew your citizenship in a month," the man called as Dalchiel walked to the door.

He noticed the kid as he reached the door. The boy moved his hand to his right horn and tapped it twice, pointing at Dalchiel's own horns. Dalchiel smiled, then did the same, pointing at the boy's horns. The kid smiled. Dalchiel opened the door and stepped out into the pouring rain.

After about 5 minutes, the rain lightened up, then came back down again. Dalchiel wasn't soaked, but his boots were leaking slightly. He grumbled a little about the crooked citizenship court and almost missed the scene in the street he began to pass. He only noticed because his boot tapped a piece of wood in the street. He looked up, then around, and saw it.

There were several noticeable differences. It was day, for one. There were also no flames. Most of the destruction was pushed to the sides of the street, but it couldn't be ignored that something bad had happened. The biggest difference was only noticeable to Dalchiel: the smell.

The rain had extinguished the flames hours before, but he recalled the smell from the creature in his dream. The toxic fumes filling his nose. Choking him. He couldn't smell that now, but the memory was there. Dalchiel looked around, then saw where he would have been standing. The rubble the beast rose from. The gore stains.

He spun around, checking all around him for anything. Any sign of the creature, the beast, the monster. Everything else was untouched. Indifferent to the carnage which most undoubtedly befell the buildings ahead of him.

His breaths became heavier. His vision blurred. Everything felt too warm. He suddenly started coughing. His mind was in too many places at once. He couldn't think, couldn't focus. He had only one clear thought: home. Dalchiel hacked up a few more coughs and ran to the temple through the still dreary weather.

_**Hey, everyone. Thanks for holding on. I know it has been a few months since my last entry, but I am really trying to work on this now. I am working on chapter 3, but have hit a little rut. I am suffering from writer's block and only want to release the chapter once I feel comfortable that it is at least adequate. Currently, I am not finished with it and want work with it to flesh it out better. It might be a little bit before it releases, but hopefully not as long as last time. I still have things going on in my life, but I am trying to work on this as much as possible.**_

_**Thank you.**_

_**Andre 4/18/20**_


End file.
